


Solitary creatures

by orphan_account



Series: Flutz [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blood, Bruises, Fainting, Gen, Mild Language, Sickfic, Vomiting, Yurio being a brat, brief hospital mention, turbulent flight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-02-01 02:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21334129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky doesn't care what it costs to be the best. He's willing to pay it.
Series: Flutz [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540357
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Solitary creatures

Yuri wakes sometime before dawn. For one fuzzy, surreal moment he doesn't understand why. He's vaguely aware that he's soaked with sweat, and the salon pas patches plastered all over his long muscles are doing that gross, tacky thing where they sort of just ooze off of his skin. Something about the thought makes his stomach roll over, and he swallows something sour back down.

Wait.

Oh. _Shit._

With surprising grace given the situation he leaps up to his feet. Ugh, what's the layout of this hotel room again? He doesn't have time to find the lights, but he slaps the wall until he finds the doorway to the bathroom. Even in the dark, the toilet is easy enough to locate from there. He's pretty sure he doesn't want to see what's about to be in it anyway. Yuri opens the lid and kneels shakily in front of it, grasping the sides hard enough his knuckles would probably be white if he could see them. _Shit, shit, shit._

It comes up so violently some of it spills out of his nose. The thick, gurgling belches and pained retching in between leave him gasping for breath. It feels like it takes forever, even though it's probably only a few minutes. His stomach burns with the effort of it all, and he realizes that his arms are shaking. Yuri spits up one last mouthful, followed by a ringing belch that echoes off of the inside of the porcelain, and decides that he's done. If there's anything left inside of him, it will just have to wait. He can hear the clock radio distantly. It's time to get ready.

One more runny mouthful surges up as he reaches up to flush it, but that's the last he's going to allow. He spits irritably and starts peeling his disgusting pajamas off. He's obviously feverish, so he turns the shower on too cold. It's better than asking someone for a fever reducer, he decides. He almost regrets the decision when he kicks off his shorts and steps in under the spray. It's lucky that it takes his breath away, or he might have yelped in dismay. It's even colder than he expected. His teeth start to chatter instantly, but he manages to struggle through a quick shampoo, suds, and a hurried rinse off before he lets himself bolt back out of it.

Ok, that's done. Next, his teeth. The toothbrush is impossible to find in the dark, so he pats along the wall until he hits the light switches. The light temporarily blinds him. He blinks, but it makes no difference. There's an ominous ringing in his ears and a disorienting wave of vertigo hits him. He has just enough time to curse before his knees buckle and his consciousness follows.

\--

Someone is knocking on the door. The sound of it echoes around in his skull. Ow. He's shivering violently, and there's something sticky under his cheek. Blood. On a hotel bathroom floor. There are so many things happening at once that he doesn't want to deal with, but the knocking has to be first. Yuri grudgingly gets to his feet and wraps a towel around his waist to answer the door. He throws it open wide with his best death glare. "What?"

Mila blinks at him in mild alarm, and too late he realizes that cleaning the blood off his face should have come before opening the door. "What?" She repeats. Yuri slams the door in her face and throws the chain across it.

"I cut myself shaving. I'll be down in five minutes. Go away!" He snaps. The lie isn't perfect, considering he doesn't have any facial hair yet, but it'll have to do. There's a long pause where he can tell that Mila is still standing outside his door, and he's worried that she might call someone else to drag him out. She doesn't, though. She just grumbles something rude at him and stomps away.

He gags a few times while brushing his teeth, but manages not to throw up again. A quick rinse of his face and a comb through his hair is good enough. His chin and eye are bruised, his lip is swollen, but it's going to have to do. Maybe Mila can help him cover it up enough to fool the cameras at least. Yuri hurries into his warm ups, grabs his kit, and is out the door as promised.

The elevator ride makes him want to hurl again, which isn't promising. He walks right past the continental breakfast offerings. No need to test those waters, they're obviously choppy at best this morning.

He doesn't have to ask Mila for some of that concealer gunk or whatever, because Georgi finds him first and starts smearing weird things on him like he's just been waiting for the opportunity to do so. Yuri bites his tongue for once, even if he really wants to object. He can deal with something weird on his face if it covers up most of the damage he's done.

\--

His warm ups are a little shaky, and coach gives him shit for it. He deserves it, so he lets it go. Whatever, that's what warm ups are for. It only matters how he does in his performance. He's still shivering, but hopefully once he's out there his body will decide not to expend the energy on that when he needs it to compete.

His stomach turns over alarmingly after his last series of jumps, and he barely stops long enough to get his skates covered before he bolts for the locker room. He hits his knees in front of one of the toilets again, only allowing himself a brief moment of inner sobbing in disgust when he throws up all over his hand and arm because he can't get it out of the way fast enough. He's soaked with sweat again. Is there time for another shower? Probably not. Ugh.

To make things worse, some asshole is outside the stall whistling and fixing their hair in the mirror while Yuri bows deeply to the porcelain gods. It's humiliating, and it sure isn't quiet. Every belch, gag and groan echoes loudly in the locker room's strange acoustic minefield. Yuri spits to clear the taste from his mouth. He gets shakily to his feet and takes a deep breath before throwing open the stall door. He marches out like it's any other day and calmly washes the vomit chunks off of his arm. Of course the asshole is Victor. Why is he even surprised?

"The nerves will get better, don't worry." Victor has the nerve to say it with a smile. Yuri rinses his mouth and glares at him in the mirror. Ordinarily he'd object to that, but it's better than the truth at the moment. Performance anxiety is normal, after all. Being sick might get him sent home instead. Grudgingly, he nods as if he agrees. As if it isn't humiliating enough to be sick somewhere semi-public, it would have to be Victor who witnesses it. Even worse, he thinks it's a show of weakness. Yuri's cheeks burn hot, and it's not just the fever anymore.

\--

He makes it through the routine, but he's a little weak and wobbly. He doesn't fall, but he touches the ice twice and pitches forward in a dry heave before he's done holding his pose at the end. He sulks off the ice, only to be cornered by Yakov. Yuri shoves past, but Yakov follows after him, cursing in three different languages, one of which Yuri doesn't even speak. The kiss and cry sits empty as Yuri hits his knees in a toilet stall for the second time that day. Hardly anything comes up, and what little does is just bile and his stomach lining. The dry heaving is brutal, though. Tears stream down his face reflexively. He vomits so hard he cracks his teeth against the toilet rim, which is a whole new kind of disgusting even for a guy who's spent more time with his face in a toilet bowl than out of one all day.

He places third (ugh,) but it's all for nothing. Yakov takes one look at the blood vessel that blew in his eye during that last bout of puking and sends him to the hospital to be pumped full of IV fluids. The anti-emetics and painkillers are a relief, but only physically. He'd have rather just suffered through it and competed again the next day. What point is there to coming all this way just to leave without even trying? Because of what, a little tummy ache? It's pathetic. He's _furious_.

Instead of getting to compete the next day, he's sent home. It's not unexpected, but it tastes far more bitter than that metallic tang he still feels in the back of his throat right before he's about to hurl again. The humiliation just keeps coming, first in the form of being escorted onto the airplane as if he's a child since he's technically an unaccompanied minor.

Then there's the flight itself. He keeps down clear fluids all day just fine until they hit heavy turbulence, and then suddenly he's the guy heaving loudly into one of those stupid little wax coated paper bags that's always mixed in with the in flight magazines for people to ignore. The gasps and whispers aren't great, but the telltale clicking of phone cameras tells him he's been recognized, even in such a compromising position. Great. There's something to dread seeing on the internet tomorrow. Maybe his luck will finally balance out and they'll all come out blurry. Or every stupid fucking camera phone on the flight might spontaneously combust. That would work, too.

It's a long, miserable flight. He dozes on and off, occasionally waking up to ruin everyone else's sleep by turning his stomach inside out. The flight attendants bring him water, pretzels, and ginger ale every freaking time, as if somehow it will magically make him feel better. He's not going to feel better, though. He should be standing on a podium! This is some sick, twisted joke. Someone else is accepting his medal right now, and all he can do about it is belch up mushy ginger flavored pretzel spew. It's pathetic. He's better than this! What is he even going to tell Grandpa?

\--

When they finally land he heads the opposite way of the luggage carousels. Who gives a shit? It has his address on the tags. They'll send it to him eventually. He puts on his shades and pulls his hood up so he can walk past the hire car waiting for him too. Like hell he's going home. He needs to hit the rink and practice. He had plenty of sleep on the plane, it was a long flight. The next competition is right around the corner.

Rather than a taxi, he takes the train. The train is dark and crowded. People do absurd things on it all of the time. Half the people on it are probably crying behind their shades in dark corners. Who's going to notice just one more? It's exactly what he needs on this day. It's only 16 stops to the exchange. That's just enough time to feel sorry for himself, he decides. He slumps into a seat and ducks his head so the tears roll to the floor and mix with the slush on the rubber mats there. He counts the stops in his head. Two stops out he wipes his face on his sleeve. One stop out he grabs his bag and shoves his way to the doors. When they get to his stop he steps out the doors with his head held high and his shoulders squared. 


End file.
